


Hold It Up To Candlelight

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alt-Mode Sexual Interfacing, Animal Traits, Emotions, F/M, Oral Sex, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12331254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: It takes time for your Warworld and the surrounding fleet to regroup, to find a new heading and leave the little planet behind you. As efficient as your officers are, it’s still a major undertaking. A slow undertaking. You’re… restless. You need to be doing something. There isn’t much for you to accomplish while your Warworld recovers and your men lick their wounds, but if you don’t find some way to burn this energy, you’re going to start breaking things. Sparring would usually hold some appeal. But considering… everything, the thought leaves a bad taste in your mouth.So it is lucky when Nickel invites herself up to your quarters. It’s a surprise, to be sure. And you hardly know what to think of her. She spoke mainly to Tarn and his men, and it isn’t as though she has any prior history available for you to reference. If you were being sensible, you’d be treating her as a risk. But as it is, you can’t bring yourself to care beyond the possibility of adistraction.





	Hold It Up To Candlelight

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/166279968596/hold-it-up-to-candlelight-spockandawe-the)

It takes time for your Warworld and the surrounding fleet to regroup, to find a new heading and leave the little planet behind you. As efficient as your officers are, it’s still a major undertaking. A slow undertaking. You’re… restless. You need to be doing something. There isn’t much for you to accomplish while your Warworld recovers and your men lick their wounds, but if you don’t find some way to burn this energy, you’re going to start breaking things. Sparring would usually hold some appeal. But considering… everything, the thought leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

So it is lucky when Nickel invites herself up to your quarters. It’s a surprise, to be sure. And you hardly know what to think of her. She spoke mainly to Tarn and his men, and it isn’t as though she has any prior history available for you to reference. If you were being sensible, you’d be treating her as a risk. But as it is, you can’t bring yourself to care beyond the possibility of a _distraction._

And she’s a distraction who will separate you from your men, your processor whispers. Selfish, irresponsible, and again, a _risk._ She served under Tarn, even if she might have turned on him by the end. Nothing about the situation makes this a good choice. You should be with your men. Your officers will have reports you need to hear, you should be visiting the injured and comforting the bereaved. Now more than ever, it’s important for you to shoulder that weight, when so much of the fault rests directly with you.

Tomorrow. You’ll go to them tomorrow.

You try telling yourself that the delay will be inconsequential, that taking the time to step back and think will help you do better by your soldiers when you do speak to them. Or that you’re tired and distracted now, and they deserve better from you. Excuses. You’re doing this because you haven’t made a mistake of this magnitude since before you took command of the Warworld, and you don’t want to face the consequences of your actions.

So when Nickel bluntly asks if you want to share a berth tonight, you say yes before you can remind yourself of all the reasons why you shouldn’t.

She immediately moves towards the exit of the bridge and gives you an expectant, almost-demanding look, imperious enough that you could nearly believe that she’s the ranking officer and not you. You follow her lead. Why not? At a better time, that would be enough to make you laugh out loud. Even if you can’t quite manage laughter right now, you can still play along.

After you leave the bridge, she still has to let you take the lead. Your ship was designed for war, not as a residence, and Nickel hasn’t been on board long enough to learn the entire tangle of hallways. Remaking the interior of your Warworld— That was always something you had plans for when you had the money and resources. Sectioning off the machinery that drives the ship, making the corridors more navigable, consolidating storage areas. But your entire crew has known the ship inside and out for centuries and centuries, and there were always more urgent issues to take care of. You wouldn’t have had any reason to even think of it if _you_ hadn’t decided to allow newcomers on board, you realize.

And even though you take the most direct route possible to your quarters, it still isn’t a quick trip. You don’t seek out your men, but you say a few words to any of them who turn to you as you pass. Most of the mechs you see are sporting some amount of damage, but they know well enough how to approach the medics in descending order of urgency. One junior officer pulls you aside to quietly pass along the number of confirmed casualties, and your spark twists. So _many._

It helps that half a klik later one of the medical aides chases you down to inform you that even for the worst-injured, the doctors believe the survivors are all in stable condition. Nickel watches you closely as you speak to Tourniquet, getting more details from him before you send him on his way back to the medbay. He races off with a squeal of tires, and you watch him go before turning to continue towards your quarters. You can’t read the expression on Nickel’s face. Perhaps this could be more efficiently done over comms, but your crew knows how much you prefer to speak to them in person— and how easily you can miss messages when things are busy. You aren’t about to change your habits just to to look better for some outsider, not at a time like this.

You almost reach your quarters, but one more delay— You snag Joyrider by the arm as he walks by and tell him that if the medics report any needs the Warworld can’t support right now, standing orders are that securing those resources will be the highest priority. From the corner of your optic, you see Nickel nod in a way you think means approval.

Though as Joyrider leaves, belatedly, you remember what job Nickel actually had with Tarn and his men. “If you wanted to work with the doctors, I’m sure—”

But she’s already waving you off. “You think they want to be treated by me right now? Do _you_ really want me treating them right now? If you’ve got enough doctors and everyone’s out of immediate danger, put me on the busywork patch jobs tomorrow, after things finish calming down.”

You aren’t sure if you’re just that easy to read or if she only happens to be thinking in the same direction you are. You settle for not answering her and just focus on keying in the access code for your quarters.

As the door opens, she adds, “Set up a little drop-in station for me. Somewhere central, where people can stop by if they have a klik or two to spare, and I can take care of quick fixes without them clogging up the medbay.”

You— don’t see anything wrong with that plan. You don’t see anything to argue with. It’s been… a while since your crew had to deal with casualties on this scale. When you cyberform alien worlds, you’re able to plan your own attacks, make your own calls, use your own _better judgment._ You haven’t lost so many men at a time since you abandoned Megatron’s command. Perhaps you should speak to your doctors about training the crew in basic field patchwork, enough to buy the seriously injured enough time to be evacuated to the medics—

No. You’re not thinking about that right now.

Instead you’ll think about how impressively commanding Nickel is. You wish you were able to be properly amused by it all. She didn’t even wait for an answer while you were distracted. She’s already on the other side of the room, boosting herself up onto your berth. You’re still only a few steps past the door. You suppose it’s lucky for you that she needed to wait for you to show her the way from the bridge to your quarters.

Once she’s up on the berth, she turns to give you an imperious look. “Well?”

You force yourself into motion. Even if you are hopelessly distracted, you need to manage to act something like yourself.

And in the name of that goal, you transform into your alt mode.

At first, you just settle back on your haunches, letting your beak hang open in a grin. You do your best not to laugh while you look up at Nickel’s expression. At first her face is just pure skepticism, but then she meets your optics and gives you a flat _look._

“You’d better not think this makes any difference in whether you get to spike me. And I’m not figuring out how to spike _you_ when you’re busy looking like that.”

You really do almost laugh. This has been a trick good for any number of reactions over the years, but this is already much more entertaining than the mechs who respond with shock or alarm. You tilt your head sideways at her in an unspoken question, play-uncomprehension, or however she chooses to take it.

Nickel slides down off the edge of the berth to join you on the floor and looks your frame up and down. “Absolutely not,” she says. “Look at the size of you! I don’t know what kind of mods you think I might have, but unless your spike is much, _much_ smaller than I’m guessing, I’d have to have a valve that took up most of my torso.”

She moves around to your side, still looking you over. “Can you even lie comfortably on your back with a spinal strut like that? I doubt it. I’m guessing your side won’t be any better. You might be comfortable, but you won’t move well. With joints like these, how bipedal are you? Some, I’m sure, but I think getting upright enough to do me any good is going to be a high-strain position. And—” She rolls close enough to bump your tail with her wheels. “From behind, I’d have to deal with _that,_ which is larger than I am. So that’s not happening.”

You just watch her, still with your beak wide open in a grin and not saying a word. This is _too_ entertaining, it really is. You stay seated where you are, but flop over onto one hip, letting your legs splay out beside you. Nickel is looking up at you with her hands on her hips, waiting for some kind of reply. Instead of giving her one, you fan out your crest and wings in a nice little display.

She still doesn’t flare up. She only says, “How about you tell me what we _are_ doing, since all that is off the table.”

You hold her optics for a moment. You could give in and speak to her— Or you could keep playing the game.

That hardly even counts as a choice. Of course you don’t answer her. Instead, all you do is twist yourself around and lick your own panel.

That does get a reaction out of her. From the corner of your optics, you can see the look of surprise on her face. So you lick yourself again, slower, letting her see just how long and flexible your tongue is.

Nickel moves in towards you, close enough to put one hand on your shoulder. “Really,” she says. _“Really?”_

You let your panel slide open. It’s a bit of a strain to reach this far, but again, your tongue is very long and _very_ flexible. Enough so that you can wrap it around your spike as it pressurizes. The feeling of your tongue on your array is good enough, but the way you feel her grip on your shoulder tighten is even better. Your tongue slides around and over your spike in one smooth, practiced motion, and if you twist as far as you can, you can reach _just_ far enough to lick your own node.

And you’re doing this to see Nickel’s reaction more than for your own benefit, but she pushes off your shoulder, pulls back— You can see her looking down your side instead of at your tongue and try not to be too disappointed. You were hoping for a better response than just that.

But before you can make another move, she turns and locks optics with you. “You absolute _idiot,”_ she snaps. “Did you have plating removed _just so you could lick your own spike?”_

You burst into laughter, so hard it just shakes your whole body from beak to tail.. And you can’t stop. This is better than anything you could have possibly hoped for. You should have realized— She is a doctor, after all. You’re absolutely helpless with laughter at the outraged look on her face.

She reaches up to grab your beak and drag your face down so you’re optic to optic with her. It twists you so far around it would be a bit painful to hold the position— Unless, hypothetically, you’ve had a certain amount of plating removed to make you more flexible.

“And here I thought I’d seen the worst that people had to offer. I _wish_ I could go back to the good old days, where the worst I had to worry about was people putting off their maintenance.” She pulls your face in even closer, her hand tight on your beak. “Don’t be shy, go ahead and tell me why you thought it was a good idea to give enemies an unprotected opening _right_ to your internals?”

It’s not _right_ into your internals. There’s… some plating. Light plating. And what kind of fighter would you be if you didn’t know how to defend your weak spots? But there’s no humor in that answer. Instead, you hold your beak carefully still so you don’t damage her hand, and tilt your head sideways in mock-uncomprehension.

Nickel scowls and shakes your beak. “Don’t you give me that! We both know you can talk like this just fine, you aren’t fooling anybody. Do you have an answer, or is your answer just that you care more about licking your spike than you care about staying alive?”

You’re doing your best to mind your beak. Not so easy when you’re still shaking with silent laughter. But as small as she is, if you bit down you’d be almost certain to mangle her hand. Not— Not that she’d look out of place on the ship like that right now. It’s a sobering thought. It isn’t a thought you want to be having. How many mechs did you pass on your way here with missing or unsalvageable limbs? And those are the _minor_ injuries, those are the injuries not severe enough to warrant immediate treatment.

Despite your best efforts, you find your grip on yourself starting to slip. Nickel is watching your face too closely to miss it. You can see her expression start to shift, and— No, you _refuse_ to let this turn into an excuse for you to wallow in self-pity.

So instead, you lick her hand.

To be more accurate, you lick her hand, her arm, her shoulder, _and_ a good half of her face.

Her expression is frozen somewhere between horror and shock, and it’s enough to knock the humor back into you again. You give her your most innocent look. How could you have known that would happen? You just so happen to have a very long tongue and she just so happens to be a very small mech. Nobody could have possibly foreseen this.

Nickel gives your beak one last exasperated shake and then lets you go. “I give up! I give up. You’ve decided your array is more important than your life. Why don’t you go ahead and show me what makes that decision so worthwhile.”

You look at her with the saddest optics you can manage until she puts a hand on your face and shoves you back towards your array.

“Don’t you give me that look,” she says. “We both know you understand me, _and_ we both know you can speak just fine. This is apparently just what you do for _fun_.”

You do start to bend down to your spike again, but Nickel pushes off your shoulder and moves away from you. You look up to see where she’s going, but she only backs away far enough to maneuver around your back feet and settle down between your legs.

She looks up at you. “Go on, then. If this was important enough to have plating removed, I’m guessing it must be good.”

It _is_ good. It makes for a very nice show, which is certainly a major part of the appeal, but it’s been a very worthwhile modification just for your sake too.

You wrap your tongue around your spike, watching the way Nickel watches you. You might not be able to as much strength behind the grip as you could get with hands or a valve, but there’s nothing that can compare to the smooth slide and flex of your tongue on your array. It takes time to bring yourself to overload like this. If you want fast, you can just take care of yourself in root mode with your hands. This is slow and luxurious, a gradual build where you have to focus and concentrate and find the balance between sensation and dexterity.

And then Nickel puts her hands on your array.

Even after all that fussing, there’s no hesitation on her part. One of her hands goes straight to the base of your spike—her fingers don’t even come close to meeting around it—and her other hand goes to your node. She’s not gentle, though you mean that in the best way possible. She grips you tighter than your tongue can, though she doesn’t move her hand at all.

“Keep going,” she says.

And you do. You keep your tongue wrapped around your spike, bending forward far enough that it can slide down even further over your plating. _Perhaps_ bending forward just far enough that it brushes over Nickel’s fingers as well.

She makes a face, but only says, “We both know you’re doing that on purpose. And also—” The fingers of her other hand press up against your node, rubbing a small circle against you, firm enough that your hips jerk forward into her hands. “I’ll take care of this. You can barely reach it in the first place. Just think how much easier this would be for you if you were in your root mode.”

You don’t bother to dignify that with an answer. Where’s the fun in that? Instead, you pause. You pull back from your spike. And you turn your head and take a thoughtful, considering _look_ at the remaining plating on your side.

Nickel flicks you in the beak.

She flicks you in the beak once and then grabs it again, pulling your head back around to face her. Her expression is hilariously, wonderfully aggrieved, and all she says is, “I am only willing to put up with _so much.”_

If you knew her better, you’d have some idea of how much you can get away with before she really is ready to give up on the whole venture. But for the moment, you’ve probably pushed her enough. So you bend your head back down to your spike and let your tongue wrap around it again.

Her hands go back to your array. She sets one against your node and the other over your valve. You can feel her fingers starting to spread you open, and you’re ready, tense with anticipation to have something _inside_ you. She said she wouldn’t spike you, but perhaps she’s changed her mind. The angle isn’t _that_ difficult. And then she could watch you lick your spike while she frags you herself.

But that doesn’t happen. She keeps her hand where it is, holding you open and exposed, nothing _in_ you. Her other hand moves against your node, her fingers pressing down, rubbing tight little circles against you, but the hand against your valve doesn’t move. For a moment, your optics are locked on her hands, waiting in tense anticipation for— for _something._ When it doesn’t come, you look up and meet her optics.

The way she smiles is somewhere between smug and amused. “If you want something,” she says, “you could always just _ask_ for it.”

Clever! You nearly start laughing all over again. It _would_ be so easy to ask. Which means that you’re going to do everything you can to avoid it, of course.

Nickel is watching you closely, and she only sighs. “It’s not too much trouble to have plating removed so you can lick your own spike. But it is too much trouble to use your words. Of course.” But you can still see half a smile on her face.

By way of response, you pull away from your spike for a moment and bend back in to give it a showy lick. Just to be perfectly clear.

She sighs again, but that faint half-smile is still there. “Fine. Then I suppose we’re doing things your way.”

She presses even harder against your node, right on the perfect edge of pain. Her fingers move against you faster, and you try to push yourself further into that touch. You lick your spike as quickly as you can manage, no concern for style or show, only doing everything you can to keep pace with Nickel’s hands. Or rather, her _hand._ No matter how she touches your node, her other hand stays pressed to the entrance of your valve, a constant, unrelenting tease.

It isn’t easy to build to a finish, with her right there, refusing to give you what you need most. It’s perfect. It’s exactly what you’ve needed. You have to struggle to find a rhythm you can maintain, a rhythm to match hers. It’s almost impossible to pull your mind away from the need to be _filled_ , but you can’t forget it entirely with her hand still against you, still holding you open and empty. Her fingers on your node press hard enough that it borders on being too much, but you still edge forward as best as you can, shifting closer, asking her for even more.

There’s so much about it that’s distracting and overwhelming and perfectly frustrating that that the overload is almost a surprise when it finally does arrive. You pull back from your spike just in time, and you watch Nickel watching you as the transfluid across your plating. You can feel the heat of it against you, just you can feel the calipers of your valve cycling down, looking for a spike that isn’t there. Nickel keeps her hands against you all through the overload, her fingers still moving against your node until the last of the aftershocks dies out.

For half a moment, you’re both frozen. But then you let yourself tip over entirely into your side, sprawling out across the floor and basking in satisfaction and the fading heat of the overload. Nickel stays kneeling where she is for a few nanokliks, just watching you.

When she does move, she sits back out the floor, locks optics with you, and snaps her fingers in your direction. “My turn.”

Your beak hangs open in a grin as you move to comply. Your spike is out of the question, of course. You doubt she could physically fit compatible equipment onto her frame. You can’t really ride her without going back to your root mode. And your manual dexterity is a little lacking when you’re in your alt.

There’s really no need to justify this to yourself. As long as she was interested, you were always planning to do this with your mouth.

Nickel is thinking the same thing you are. She already has her legs spread open and is imperiously beckoning you over. You settle down in front of her, resting one claw carefully on each of her legs, holding her steady as you take a look at her panel. You don’t think you’ve ever had a partner quite as small as she is. This should be an interesting experience.

You loom over her, and your claws are almost larger than her legs, but she looks entirely unconcerned. When you glance up at her for confirmation that she’s ready, she reaches up to take you by the face and pull you in even closer.

“Go on,” she says.

Your first experimental lick of her panel, your tongue covers nearly her entire pelvic span. She makes a pleased little noise, and keeps holding your face right where it is. You lick her again, longer and slower, taking your time and drawing out the hot slide of your tongue on her plating. She isn’t looking at you, only down at your tongue, but you can feel her hands tighten on your face.

In some ways, the fun of this is in taking your time and making it as slow as you can manage, until your partner begs for more. But there is also a great deal of fun in seeing how quickly you can overwhelm someone and make them crack.

So you lean in further, close enough that the tip of your beak nearly grazes Nickels’s chestplate. It lets you press the flat of your tongue against her panel, sliding over and over her plating, a constant shifting contact, moving against her without a pause. It isn’t long at all before her panel opens, and you can taste her valve and feel her spike pressurizing against you.

You do hesitate for a moment, thinking perhaps you ought to pull back and take an actual look—

Before you can even finish that thought, Nickel orders, “Don’t stop.”

You try not to laugh, but you’re free to grin as much as you’d like as you obey.

Even without looking, you can tell that her array is small. Proportionate— Which means small. You lick over her in simple broad stripes, nothing like you were doing with your own spike. You’re not sure you’d be able to wrap your tongue around hers, not before you ran out of room. But with her being so small, it _does_ mean you’re able to cover her entire array with a single pass of your tongue. From the pleased noises she’s making and the grip she still has on your face, you’re almost certain she’s noticed that too.

Her fans are spinning fast by now, and you can feel the heat of her ventilations. She might be close to overload, but you don’t know her well enough to tell. It would be easy to _ask_ her, of course. But also of course, you don’t plan to. It’s so much more entertaining to solve these puzzles all on your own.

But you do shift your approach, just a little. Nickels hands are still locked tight on your face, but you’re still curious about what her array actually _looks_ like. It only requires a little more control with your tongue, taking the time to map out her spike and valve. You can feel the shape of her spike, all the edges between the delicate little plates, little points of warmth that might be biolights. You can taste a hint of transfluid, and when the tip of your tongue moves over her transfluid channel, you can feel her spike twitch under you.

For her valve, you take a little more care. Your spike might be out of the question, but with how small she is, you have some doubts you could even get a finger inside her. Your tongue—you’re less certain. But if you were careless enough to injure her at this stage, it would be an unforgivable oversight. So you feel her out delicately, slowly, gently. She shifts under your claws and says something cross about _faster_ that you ignore for the moment. Here, you can definitely feel the soft warmth of biolights under her tongue, all along the soft plating of her valve. You let your tongue brush against her, close enough to taste, but careful not to push inside, not yet. And when you find her anterior node and press the tip of your tongue to it, you get the strongest reaction from her that you’ve had yet, as her hands lock tight on your face and her hips arch up against your mouth.

You do laugh then, delighted at that response, and press your advantage. Again, you find her node, working blind and pressed so close to her that your teeth scrape against the plating of her torso. She doesn’t seem to mind, thrashing under you but still holding your face to her array, telling you to give her _more._ Her array is so small that your tongue is pressed against her spike, against her node, and along her valve, all at once.

As you work, you hold her as still as you can with the grip you have on her legs, but it’s not perfect. When she arches up into you again, the tip of your tongue slips from her node and begins to press into her valve. And that’s when Nickel overloads. You stop before you can inadvertently do any damage, but not only is Nickel uninjured, but she’s still trying to push her array further into your mouth. Her hands drop from your head to press against her own face as she shakes, but you can still see her grinning past her hands. You still can’t see, but you can feel her calipers flex against your tongue, and you can taste her transfluid. Once she’s seems to be done, you carefully take your tongue from her valve, and pull away.

This was—entertaining. It was a worthwhile diversion, you suppose, but your mind is already going back to everything you were doing your best to ignore. You still don’t have the final list of the casualties, but you saw plenty of the mechs who fell yourself. Funeral arrangements. You need to see what they had no record, or you need to speak to their closest friends, which will take some delicacy. Afterburner has lost— three amica endurae now, you think? Primus. You’ll need to find someone who can spare time to spend with him while he’s off-duty. And Spanner’s gone. He and Steeleye might not have entered a formal arrangement, but anyone with optics could see how they felt about each other, and you ought to—

Nickel has hold of your face again and is staring right into your optics. You can’t read her expression, and she sincerely hope she can’t read yours. After a long moment she sighs, and her voice is exasperated but gentle when she tells you, “I didn’t say I was _done.”_

You throw yourself gratefully into the distraction. She pulls you down between her legs again, and you settle in like you were before, her hands on your face, steering you.

“I can take more than that,” she says. “More in my valve. Go slowly, but _I’ll_ tell you when to stop.” There’s a short pause, and she adds, “This is what it looks like when someone asks for things using their _words.”_

It surprises a laugh out of you. And you could say that there wasn’t any _asking_ that happened right there, but you’ll save that response for another time. For now, you just give her what she wants. Once she pulls you in close enough you can feel the warmth of her ventilations on your face, you carefully, carefully set your tongue against her valve and start to push in.

“ _Wait,”_ she eventually gasps, and you pause, optics on her face, waiting for direction. You can feel her calipers working against your tongue, straining to open for you.

“Just a little more,” she says, and you work your tongue just a little deeper into her valve before stopping. She makes a low, satisfied sound and drops one hand from your face to bring it to her array. She rubs her node fast and hard, just like she did with yours. Her hips shift minutely under your claws—not much, but enough to make your tongue move insider her, enough for you to feel her calipers f and adjust around you. When she overloads, she does it quietly, her frame shuddering and her fingers still working against her node, her valve tight around your tongue.

After her overload finishes, there’s a few nanokliks of silence where she just lies there, optics dim, with the only noise the sound of her fans gradually spinning down. But the moment passes, and then she’s in motion again. She’s brusque as she pushes you away, even though you’re trying to pull out of her gently. You sit back on your haunches as she climbs to her feet. You suppose that you ought to recharge now, but perhaps if you wave her off to the berth first, you can get a head start on tomorrow’s work—

That’s as far as you get before she’s shooing you up to your feet and across the room. Towards the washracks, you realize. “I’m filthy,” she says. “You’re _filthier._ I’m not going to sleep this way, and I’m not sharing a berth with someone in this state. We’re getting cleaned off first.”

When you stand upright, she barely even comes up to your knee. It doesn’t even give her a moment’s pause as she keeps herding you over to the washracks.

“Go! This is _not_ a point I’m willing to negotiate on. You just spent the whole evening _licking things,_ and neither of us is getting in that berth until that’s taken care of. And don’t even think about saying you’ll clean after up I do, because we both know that means you’ll stay up rattling around until some Prion-forsaken time and _neither_ of us will get any rest for tomorrow. Get in there, because this night isn’t moving any further until this happens.”

Your beak is open in a wide grin as she talks, but you can at least play at being meek and bow your head and pretend that you aren’t about to laugh out loud as you listen to her scold you. There are any number of ways you could be difficult or uncooperative, up to and including simply refusing to move. But she doesn’t let up for a moment and keeps shooing you on your way, and you finally let yourself just surrender, and allow her to lead you along, across the room, through the door, and into the washracks.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/166279968596/hold-it-up-to-candlelight-spockandawe-the)


End file.
